MODERN   AUTHORS'    SERIES 


MOTHERLOVE 


BY  cAUGVST  STRINDBERG 


/ 


MOTHERLOVE 


MODERN  AUTHORS'  SERIES 

MOTHERLOVE 

(MODERSKARLEK) 

An   Act 

BY 

AUGUST    STRINDBERG 

Author  of  "  The  Creditor,"  "  Swanwhite,"  "  Frbken  Julie,"  etc. 

English  Version 

BY 
FRANCIS  J.  ZIEGLER 


PHILADELPHIA 

BROWN  BROTHERS 
1910 


Copyright,  1910 
BY 

BROWN   BROTHERS 


SRLF 


?T 


MOTHER LOVE 

(MODERSKARLEK) 

An  Act,  by  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 
English  Version  by  FRANCIS  J.  ZIEGLER 


CHARACTERS. 

The  Mother,  formerly  a  loose  woman,  forty-two  years. 

The  Daughter,  actress,  twenty  years. 

Lizzie,  eighteen  years. 

Wardrobe  Mistress  of  the  theatre. 


MOTHERLOVE. 


SCENE. 

The  interior  of  a  fisherman's  cottage  at  a  seaside  re- 
sort. In  the  background  a  veranda  opening  upon  the 
beach. 

(The  Mother  and  the  Wardrobe  Mistress  smoking 
cigars,  drinking  porter  and  playing  cards.  The  Daugh- 
ter stands  looking  intently  out  the  window.) 

THE  MOTHER. 
Come,  Helen,  and  make  the  third  kand! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Can't  I  leave  card  playing  alone  for  once  on  such  a 
beautiful  summer  day ! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

Always  be  civil  to  your  mama ! 

9 


10  MOTHEELOVE. 

THE  MOTHER. 
Don't  sit  out  there  on  the  veranda  and  get  sunburnt ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
It  doesn't  burn  here ! 

THE  MOTHER. 

Then  pull  down  the  blind !  (To  the  Wardrobe  Mis- 
tress.) You  must  shuffle.  Be  so  good. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Can't  I  go  bathing  with  the  girls  to-day  ? 

THE  MOTHER. 
"Not  without  your  mama,  you  know  that ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

But  the  girls  know  how  to  swim,  and  mama  does 
not! 

THE  MOTHER. 

The  question  is  not  who  knows  how  to  swim  and  who 
doesn't,  but  Helen  knows  that  she  never  goes  out  with- 
out her  mama. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

As  if  I  didn't  know  that !  I  have  heard  it  ever  since 
I  could  understand  what  you  said! 


MOTHERLOVE.  11 

THE  WAEDBOBE  MISTRESS. 

That  shows  that  Helen  has  had  a  loving  mother  who 
wanted  the  best  for  her  child ! 

THE  MOTHEE. 
(Reaches  her  hand  to  the  Wardrobe  Mistress.) 

Thanks !  Thanks  for  those  words,  Augusta !  What 
I  was  once,  that  -  -  but  that  I  have  been  a  tender 
mother  I  can  say  myself  with  confidence. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

It  is  not  worth  while,  then,  asking  you  if  I  can  go 
down  and  play  lawn  tennis ! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

One  must  not  be  disrespectful  to  one's  mother,  young 
lady,  and  when  one  doesn't  want  to  please  one's  asso- 
ciates by  taking  part  in  their  simple  amusements  it 
seems,  to  speak  frankly,  indelicate  to  come  and  ask  to 
be  allowed  to  amuse  oneself  in  other  company! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Yes,  yes,  yes,  I  know  all  that ;  I  know,  I  know ! 

THE  MOTHER. 
Are  you  disagreeable  again !    Find  something  useful 


12  MOTHERLOVE. 

to  do  and  don't  sit  there  so  idle!     A  grown  up  young 
lady! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

If  I  am  a  grown  up  young  lady,  why  do  you  treat 
me  like  a  child  ? 

THE  MOTHER. 

Because  you  behave  like  a  child ! 
THE  DAUGHTER. 

You,  at  least,  should  not  reproach  me,  you  want  me 
that  way ! 

THE  MOTHER. 

See  here,  Helen,  I  notice  you  have  grown  snappier 
than  usual  recently With  whom  do  you  associ- 
ate here  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

With  you  among  others ! 

THE  MOTHER. 
You  begin  to  have  secrets  from  your  mother ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Yes,  it's  time  I  did ! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

Shame  on  you,  young  lady,  do  you  want  to  squabble 
with  your  mother ! 


MOTHERLOVE.  13 

THE  MOTHER. 

We  ought  to  be  doing  something  useful  instead  of 
quarreling.  For  example,  come  and  read  me  your  part. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

The  manager  said  I  was  to  read  it  over  to  nobody, 
I  would  only  be  taught  wrong. 

THE  MOTHER. 

That  is  the  thanks  one  gets  for  trying  to  help !  And 
everything  I  do  is  foolish,  that  goes  without  saying! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Why  do  you  do  it  then,  and  why  should  I  take  the 
blame  when  you  do  things  the  wrong  way ! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

You  want  to  reproach  your  mother  for  her  lack  of 
education!  Pooh,  how  simple! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

You  say  that  I  want  to,  Aunt,  but  I  don't  do  so! 
But  when  my  mother  wants  to  teach  me  anything  the 
wrong  way  I  must  tell  her,  unless  my  engagement  is  to 
come  to  an  end  and  we  find  ourselves  down  on  our 
uppers ! 


14  MOTHERLOVE. 

THE  MOTHER. 

And  so  we  have  to  hear,  also,  that  we  live  off  you! 
But  do  you  know  how  much  you  owe  to  Aunt  Augusta 
here  ?  Do  you  know  that  it  was  she  who  took  both  of  us 
in  when  your  bad  father  deserted  us;  that  she  cared 
for  us,  and  that,  you  owe  her  a  debt  which  you  can 
never  repay !  Do  you  know  that  ? 

(The  Daughter  is  silent.) 

THE  MOTHER. 
Do  you  know  that  ?    Answer ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
I  won't  answer  that ! 

THE  MOTHER. 
Won't  you  answer ! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

Calm  yourself,  Amelia !  The  neighbors  will  hear  us 
and  there  .will  be  scandal  again.  So  quiet  yourself  1 

THE  MOTHER. 
(To  the  Daughter.") 
Go  get  dressed  and  come  walking  with  UB ! 


MOTHERLOVE.  15 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
I  will  not  go  walking  to-day ! 

THE  MOTHER. 

This  is  the  third  day  that  you  have  refused  to  go 
walking  with  your  mother!  (Thought f idly.)  Can  it 

be  possible? Go  out  on  the  veranda,  Helen,  I  want 

to  talk  to  Aunt  Augusta. 

(The  Daughter  goes  out  to  the  veranda.) 

THE  MOTHER. 
Do  you  believe  it  is  possible  ? 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 
What? 

THE  MOTHER. 
That  she  has  heard  anything? 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 
That  is  not  possible! 

THE  MOTHER. 

Anything  can  happen!  Not  that  I  believe  anyone 
could  be  so  cruel  as  to  tell  the  child  to  her  face.  I  had 
a  nephew  who  was  thirty-six  before  he  heard  that  his 


16  MOTHEKLOVE. 

father  was  a  suicide But  there  is  something  back  of 

Helen's  changed  disposition.  Eight  days  ago  I  noticed 
that  she  fretted  at  my  company  on  the  promenade.  She 
wanted  to  go  by  herself;  she  was  nervous,  unable  to 
speak  a  word  and  wanted  to  come  home!  That  means 
something ! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

Ske  objected — if  I  understand  you  correctly — to  the 
company  of  her  own  mother? 

THE  MOTHER. 
Yes! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

No,  that  is  going  too  far ! 

THE  MOTHER. 

And,  what  is  worse,  can  you  imagine,  she  neglected 
to  introduce  me  when  we  met  some  of  her  acquaintances 
coming  off  the  steamboat ! 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

Do  you  know  what  I  think? She  has  met  some- 
body who  came  here  during  the  last  eight  days. — 
We  will  go  down  to  the  post  office  and  look  over  the 
newcomers. 

THE  MOTHER. 

Yes,  we  will  do  that! Helen!    Take  care  of  the 

house  for  a  while,  we  are  going  to  the  post  office. 


MOTHERLOVE.  17 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Yes,  mama! 

THE  MOTHEE. 

(To  the  Wardrobe  Mistress.) 
It  is  just  as  if  I  had  dreamed  all  this — 
THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

Yes,  dreams  come  true,  sometimes — I  know  that 
—but  not  the  beautiful  ones. 

(They  leave  by  the  right.) 

(The  Daughter  beckons.  Lizzie  enters.  She  is 
dressed  in  lawn  tennis  costume,  all  white  with  a  white 
hat.) 

LIZZIE. 

Have  they  gone? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Yes,  for  a  little  while. 

LIZZIE. 
^Yell,  what  does  your  mother  say  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
I  did  not  dare  ask  her !     She  is  in  such  a  bad  humor. 


18  MOTHEKLOVE. 

LIZZIE. 

Poor  Helen!     Then  you  can't  come  with  me  on  the 

outing!     And  I  would  have  been  so  happy If  you 

knew  how  I  loved  you!     (Kisses  her.) 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

If  you  knew  what  your  friendship  and  the  intimacy 
of  these  days  in  your  house  meant  to  me,  who  never 
associated  before  with  decent  people.  Think  what  it 
must  be  to  me  to  live  in  a  hole  where  the  air  is  damp, 
where  people  who  live  a  questionable  existence  move 
about  me,  whispering,  brawling,  quarreling;  where  I 
never  get  a  friendly  word,  much  less  a  caress,  and 
where  my  soul  is  kept  in  custody  as  if  it  were  a  criminal 

Oh,  it  is  my  mother  of  whom  I  speak,  and  it  hurts, 

it  hurts,  it  hurts !    And  you  will  only  despise  me ! 

LIZZIE. 

One  can't  do  that  who  knows  what  the  parents  are 
and 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

"No,  but  one  must  suffer  it !  It  is  certain  that  one 
can  live  until  the  day  of  one's  death  without  learning 
what  kind  of  people  one's  parents  are  with  whom  one 
has  lived.  And  I  believe,  too,  that  when  one  heari  it 
out  doem't  believe  it ! 


MOTHERLOVE.  19 

LIZZIE. 

(Embarrased.} 
Have  you  heard  anything? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Yes,  when  I  had  been  here  three  days,  I  heard  some- 
one through  the  partition  talking  about  my  mother. 
Do  yon  know  what  they  said  \ 

LIZZIE. 
Don't  worry  about  that. — 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

They  said  that  she  had  been  a  bad  woman ! 1 

didn't  want  to  believe  it;  I  won't  believe  it  yet;  but  I 
feel  that  it  is  true ;  everything  tends  to  make  it  credible 

— and  it  shames  me !  Shames  me  to  show  myself  out- 
side with  her,  believing  that  people  look  at  us,  that  the 
men  leer  at  us it  is  frightful !  But  is  it  true  ? 

LIZZIE. 
People  lie  so  much,  and  I  don't  know. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Yes,  you  know,  you  know  something;  but  you  don't 


20  MOTHERLOVE. 

want  to  tell  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  it,  but  I  am  just 
as  unhappy,  whether  you  say  anything  or  not ! 

LIZZIE. 

My  dear  friend,  put  these  thoughts  out  of  your  head 
and  come  to  us  to-day;  you  will  meet  people  who  can 
do  you  good.  My  father  came  home  this  morning  and 
is  anxious  to  see  you,  for  you  must  know  that  I  have 
mentioned  you  in  my  letters  to  him,  and  I  believe 
Cousin  Gerhard  has  also. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

You  have  a  father;  so  had  I  when  I  was  very,  very 
little- 

LlZZIE. 

Where  is  he  now? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

He  left  us,  because  he  was  a  bad  man,  according  to 
mother. 

LIZZIE. 

One  can  tell  that  as  little However, I'll  tell 

you  something;  if  you  come  to  us  to-day  you  will  meet 
the  manager  of  the  big  theatre,  and  it  might  be  you 
could  secure  an  engagement. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
What  did  you  say? 


MOTHEKLOVE.  21 

LIZZIE. 

Yes,  it  is  so;  be  is  interested  in  you — - — that  is  to 
say,  Gerhard  and  I  have  interested  him  in  you;  and 
you  know  how  little  may  bring  good  fortune ;  a  personal 
meeting,  a  good  word  spoken  at  the  right  time.  I^ow 
you  cannot  say  no  without  standing  in  your  own  light. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Dearest,  if  I  want  to!  You  know  I  do,  but  I  don't 
go  out  without  mania. 

LIZZIE. 

Why  not  ?    Can  you  give  rne  a  reason  ? 
THE  DAUGHTER. 

1  don't  know !  She  taught  me  to  answer  that  way 
when  I  was  a  child,  and  the  order  stands. 

LIZZIE. 
Has  she  made  you  give  a  promise  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

No,  she  didn't  need ;  she  has  onjy  to  say,  answer  so ! 
And  then  I  do  it ! 

LIZZIE. 

Do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong  to  leave  her  for  a 
couple  of  hours  ? 


22  MOTHEKLOVE. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

I  don't  believe  she  would  miss  me,  because  when  I 
am  home  she  is  always  finding  fault  with  me;  but  I 
should  be  uncomfortable  if  I  went  where  she  could  not 
accompany  me. 

LIZZIE. 

Have  you  thought  of  the  possibility  of  her  being 
able  to  accompany  you  in  this  case  ? 

THE  DAUGHTEE. 

No,  I  have  not  thought  of  that ! 

LIZZIE. 
But  should  you  marry 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
I  shall  never  marry ! 

LIZZIE. 
Did  your  mother  teach  you  to  say  that,  too  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Possibly ! Yes,  she  has  always  warned  me  against 

the  men ! 

LIZZIE. 
Against  a  husband? 


MOTHERLOVE.  M 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
I  presume  so! 

LIZZIE. 

Listen,  Helen!  You  must  really  emancipate  jour- 
self. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Fy !    I  don't  want  to  be  an  emancipated  woman ! 
LIZZIE. 

~No,  I  didn't  mean  that  kind  of  one,  but  jou  must 
break  loose  from  your  dependency,  because  you  are 
grown  up,  and  because  it  can  make  life  impossible  for 
you. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

I  don't  believe  I  can  do  that.  Think  how  close  I 
have  been  tied  to  this  mother  since  childhood;  not 
daring  to  have  a  thought  which  was  not  hers,  not  a 
wish  which  was  not  her  wish.  I  know  it  hinders  me, 
that  it  stands  in  my  way,  but  I  can't  do  otherwise. 

LIZZIE. 
And  if  your  mother  died  you  would  be  helpless. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
I  should  have  to  make  my  way. 


24  MOTHEKLOVE. 

LIZZIE. 

But  you  have  no  associates,  no  friends  ;  and  one  can- 
not live  alone.  You  must  seek  a  support!  Have  you 
never  been  in  love  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

I  don't  know!  I  have  never  been  given  to  thinking 
of  such  matters,  and  mother  prevents  young  men  com- 
ing near  me  !  Do  you  think  about  such  things  ? 

LIZZIE. 
I  would  if  anybody  cared  for  me  and  I  wanted  him. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Then  you  are  going  to  marry  your  Cousin  Gerhard. 

LIZZIE. 
I  shall  never  do  that,  because  he  doesn't  love  me  ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Doesn't  he? 

LIZZIE. 


]^o  !     Because  he  is  in  love  with  you. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
With  me  ? 


MOTHEKLOVE.  25 

LIZZIE. 

Yes;  and  I  was  charged  to  ask  you  if  he  might  visit 
you. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Here  ?  No,  that  cannot  be !  And  do  you  think  that 
I  would  want  to  stand  in  your  way  \  And  do  you  think 
I  could  cut  you  out  with  him,  you  who  are  so  beautiful, 

so   fine (Takes  Lizzie's  hand  in   hers.)      Such   a 

hand  and  such  a  wrist !  I  saw  your  feet,  dearest,  when 
we  were  in  the  bathhouse.  (Falls  on  her  knees  before 
Lizzie,  who  has  seated  herself.)  Such  a  foot,  with  every 
nail  perfect,  with  the  toes  as  plump  and  rosy  as  a  baby's 
hand.  (Kisses  Lizzie's  foot.)  You  are  a  noble  woman, 
made  out  of  different  stuff  than  I  am! 

LIZZIE. 

Stop  that  and  don't  talk  nonsense!  (Eises.)  If 
you  knew ! But 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

And  you  must  be  just  as  good  as  you  are  beautiful ; 
so  we  think  always  down  here  when  we  see  you  up  there 
with  that  clear,  soft  countenance,  in  which  need  has  not 
marked  its  fear,  nor  envy  engraved  its  ugly  lines. 

LIZZIE. 
Listen,  Helen,  I  might  believe  you  were  in  love  with 


26  MOTHERLOVE. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Yes,  I  am,  too !  I  try  to  resemble  you  somewhat,  as 
the  hepatica  resembles  the  anemone,  and  then  I  see  in 
you  my  better  self,  something  that  I  might  be,  but 
never  can.  You  came  as  gently,  as  white,  as  an  angel 
in  my  way  those  recent  summer  days ;  now  it  is  autumn, 
and  the  day  after  to-morrow  we  go  back  to  the  city. 

Then  we  shall  know  each  other  no  more And  we 

dare  not  know  each  other You  can  not  lift  me  up, 

but  I  could  pull  you  down,  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that ! 
I  want  you  to  be  so  much  above  me,  so  far  away,  that 
I  cannot  see  your  faults.  Therefore,  farewell,  Lizzie, 
my  first  and  only  friend. 

LIZZIE. 

No,  that  is  enough ! —  —Helen !  Do  you  know  who  I 
am ! 1  am  your  sister ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

You? How  is  that? 

LIZZIE. 
You  and  I  have  the  same  father! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

And  you  are  my  sister,  my  dear  little  sister. 

But  what  is  my  father?     He  must  be  a,  naval  com- 


MOTHEELOVE.  27 

mander,  because  your  father  is ;  how  stupid  I  am !    But 

he  is  married  then,  because Is  he  good  to  you  ?    He 

wasn't  to  my  mother. 

LIZZIE. 

You  don't  know  that ! But  aren't  you  happy  now 

to  have  found  a  little  sister — and  one  that  doesn't  cry  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Oh,  yes,  I  am  so  happy  that  I  don't  know  what  to 

say (Embraces  her.)     But  I  dare  not  be  entirely 

happy,  because  I  don't  know  what  is  going  to  happen 
now!  What  will  mama  say,  and  how  will  it  be  when 
we  meet  papa  ? 

LIZZIE. 

Leave  your  mother  to  me;  she  cannot  stay  away 
much  longer.  And  keep  in  the  background  until  you 
are  needed.  Come  and  give  me  a  kiss  first,  little  one ! 
(They  kiss  each  other.) 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

My  sister!  How  wonderful  that  word  sounds,  as 
wonderful  as  the  word  "father"  when  one  has  not  pro- 
nounced it  before 

LIZZIE. 

Don't  let  us  talk  at  random,  but  let  us  stick  to  the 
subject. Do  you  believe  that  your  mother  will  say 


28  MOTHERLOVE. 

no  now  to  the  invitation  to  visit  us  ?     To  visit  your 
sister  and  your  father? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Without  mama  ? Oh,  she  hates  vour — mv  father 

t/  v 

so  frightfully! 

LIZZIE. 

But  suppose  she  has  no  occasion  for  it  ? If  you 

only  knew  how  full  the  world  is  of  lies  and  deceptions ! 
And  errors  and  misunderstandings.  My  father  has 
told  me  of  a  comrade  he  had  when  he  first  went  to  sea 
as  a  cadet.  A  gold  watch  was  stolen  from  the  officers' 
cabin,  and,  for  some  reason,  heaven  knows  what,  the 
cadet  was  suspected.  His  comrades  drew  away  from 
him  and  that  embittered  him  so  that  he  found  his  sur- 
roundings unbearable,  became  mixed  up  in  a  fight  and 
was  forced  to  resign.  Two  years  later  the  thief  was 
discovered,  he  was  a  boatswain,  but  no  amends  could 
be  made  the  innocent  man,  Avho  had  only  been  susj 
pected.  And  that  lasted  all  his  life,  although  the  sus- 
picion had  been  disproved,  and  the  opprobrious  nick- 
name he  had  received  hung  to  him.  It  had  been  built 
up  like  a  house,  the  bad  character  had  been  so  con- 
structed and  riveted  that  even  after  the  false  founda- 
tions had  been  taken  away  the  structure  remained, 
swinging  in  the  air  like  the  castle  in  the  Arabian 
ISTights.  You  see,  that  is  the  way  of  the  world !  But 
it  can  be  even  worse  than  that,  as  it  was  in  the  case  of 
the  instrument  maker  at  Arboga,  who  was  called  an  in- 
cendiary, because  somebody  set  fire  to  his  shop,  or  An- 


MOTHERLOVE.  29 


dersson,  who  was  called  Thief  Andersson,  because  he 
was  the  victim  of  a  well-known  rogue. 


THE  DAUGHTER. 

By  all  this  you  mean  that  my  father  was  not  what  I 
believed  him? 

LIZZIE. 

That's  just  what  I  mean! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

I  have  seen  him  in  my  dreams,  since  I  lost  the  rec- 
ollection of  him Is  he  not  of  middle  height,  with 

a  dark  beard  and  great,  blue  seaman's  eyes  ? 

LIZZIE. 
Yes,  that's  near  it ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
And  then Wait,  now,  I  think  of  something- 


Do  you  see  this  watch.     In  the  case  is  a  little  compass 
— and  in  the  compass  is  an  eye  which  marks  the 


north  ! Who  gave  me  this  ? 


LIZZIE. 
Your  father !    I  saw  him  buv  it ! 


30  MOTHERLOVE. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Then  I  have  seen  him  in  the  theatre  so  many  times 
when  I  was  acting He  sat  always  in  the  left  pros- 
cenium box  and  followed  me  about  with  his  opera 
glasses 1  did  not  dare  speak  to  mother  about  it,  be- 
cause she  was  always  so  angry  with  me and  once 

he  threw  me  flowers — but  mama  burned  them. Do 

you  think  it  was  he  ? 

LIZZIE. 

It  was  he,  and  you  can  assure  yourself  that  his  eyes 
have  followed  you  all  these  years,  as  the  eye  has  watched 
the  needle  on  the  compass. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

And  you  say  that  I  shall  see  him,  that  he  wants  to 
meet  me !  It  is  like  a  fairy  tale 

LIZZIE. 

The  fairy  tale  is  ended!  I  hear  your  mother  com- 
ing  Back  with  you,  I  must  meet  the  fire  first. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Something  awful  is  going  to  happen,  I  feel  it !  Why 
cannot  people  be  in  accord  and  be  at  peace  with  each 
other!  Oh,  that  it  were  over!  If  mama  will  only  be 
good 1  will  go  outside  and  pray  to  God  to  make  her 


MOTHERLOVE.  31 

amiable. But  he  can't  do  that,  or  he  won't  do  it, 

I  don't  know  why  ! 

LIZZIE. 

He  can  and  will  do  it,  if  you  can  only  have  faith ; 
believe  a  little  in  good  fortune  and  in  your  own  power. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Power?  For  what?  To  be  unfeeling?  I  cannot 
be !  And  the  happiness  which  is  bought  with  the  tears 
of  another  cannot  endure. 

LIZZIE. 
Indeed ! —  —Make  way ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
How  can  you  believe  that  this  will  end  well ! 

LIZZIE. 
Keep  still ! 

(Enter  the  Mother.) 

LIZZIE. 

Madame 

THE  MOTHER. 

Miss,  if  you  please 


32  MOTHERLOVE. 

LIZZIE. 
Your  daughter-  •— — 

THE  MOTHER. 

Yes,  I  have  a  daughter,  even  if  I  am  only  a  Miss, 
and  many  have  the  same,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it. 
—What's  this  all  about  ? 

LIZZIE. 

My  errand  was  simply  to  ask  you  if  Miss  Helen 
could  take  part  in  an  outing  arranged  by  some  of  the 
visitors  here. 

THE  MOTHER.  • 

Didn't  Helen  answer  that  herself? 

LIZZIE. 
Yes,  she  told  me  I  should  come  to  you! 

THE  MOTHER. 

That  was  not  the  right  answer. — Helen,  my  chiJ<l, 
do  you  want  to  accept  an  invitation  without  your 
mother  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Yes,  if  you  will  allow  me. 


MOTHEELOVE.  33 

THE  MOTHER. 

Allow  you?  What  control  have  I  over  such  a  big 
girl  ?  You  shall  answer  the  lady  as  you  like,  if  you 
want  to  leave  your  mother  sitting  alone  at  home  with 
her  shame  while  you  go  and  amuse  yourself;  if  you 
want  people  to  ask  you  about  your  mama,  so  that  you 
will  have  to  answer,  she  has  not  been  invited,  and  so 
forth,  and  so  forth.  ]^ow  say  what  you  want  yourself. 

LIZZIE. 

Do  not  let  us  stick  at  trifles.  I  know  very  well  how 
Helen  stands  in  this  matter,  and  I  know,  too,  your 
method  of  making  her  answer  as  you  will.  If  you 
really  care  for  your  daughter  as  much  as  you  pretend, 
you  ought  to  want  what  is  best  for  her,  even  when  it  is 
unpleasant  for  you. 

THE  MOTHER. 

Listen,  my  child ;  I  know  your  name  and  who  you 
are,  even  if  I  have  not  had  the  honor  of  an  introduction, 
but  I  should  like  to  know  if  your  youth  can  teach  my 
age  anything. 

LIZZIE. 

Who  knows  ?  Since  mother  died,  six  long  years  ago, 
my  time  has  been  occupied  in  bringing  up  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  I  have  made  the  discovery  that  there 
are  people  who  never  learn  anything  from  life,  no  mat- 
ter how  long  they  live. 


34  MOTHERLOVE. 

THE  MOTHER. 

What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
LIZZIE. 

I  mean  to  say,  here  is  an  opportunity  for  your  daugh- 
ter to  come  out  in  life,  possibly  to  display  her  talent  to 
better  advantage,  possibly  to  become  engaged  to  a  young 
man  of  good  social  position 

THE  MOTHER. 

That  sounds  well,  but  what  do  you  want  to  do  with 
me? 

LIZZIE. 

We  are  not  talking  about  you,  but  about  your  daugh- 
ter! Can't  you  think  for  a  moment  about  her  without 
thinking  about  yourself? 

THE  MOTHER. 

Yes,  but  you  see,  when  I  think  about  myself,  I  think 
about  my  daughter  too,  because  she  has  learned  to  love 
her  mother — 

LIZZIE. 

I  don't  believe  that!  She  has  honored  you,  because 
you  have  separated  her  from  all  others,  and  she  must 
depend  upon  someone,  since  you  parted  her  from  her 
father. 


MOTHERLOVE.  85 

THE  MOTHER. 
.What's  that  you  say  ? 

LIZZIE. 

That  you  separated  the  child  from  its  father,  because 
he  declined  to  marry  you  after  you  had  been  untrue  to 
him.  Therefore,  you  hindered  him  from  seeing  his 
child,  and. revenged  your  downfall  upon  him  and  upon 
your  child ! 

THE  MOTHER. 

Helen,  don't  believe  a  word  of  what  she  says ! 

That  I  should  live  to  see  the  day  when  a  stranger  can 
come  into  my  own  house  and  abuse  me  in  the  presence 
of  my  child ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

(Coming  forward.') 

You  dare  not  say  anything  bad  of  my  mother 

LIZZIE. 

I  must,  if  I  am  to  say  anything  good  of  my  father 

Nevertheless,  I  see  that  this  conversation  is  nearing  the 

end Allow  me,  therefore,  to  give  you  one  or  two 

pieces  of  good  advice:  Put  that  bawd,  who  goes  by 
the  name  of  Aunt  Augusta,  out  of  your  house,  if  you 
do  not  want  to  ruin  your  daughter's  career  totally. 
That  is  number  one !  Put  in  order  all  the  receipts  for 


36  MOTHERLOVE. 

the  money  you  received  from  my  father  for  Helen's 
education,  as  you  will  soon  have  to  make  an  accounting ! 

That  is  number  two!     Then  an  extra  number Stop 

following  your  daughter  with  your  companions  on  the 
street,  or  she  will  lose  her  present  engagement;  and 
then  you  will  sell  your  daughter's  favors,  as  you  sought 
formerly  to  buy  back  your  lost  reputation,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  your  child's  future. 

(The  Mother  is  crushed.') 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

(To  Lizzie.) 

Leave  this  house.  Nothing  is  sacred  to  you,  not  even 
motherlove ! 

LIZZIE. 

Such  a  holy  one !  Just  as  when  children  spit  on  each 
other  when  playing  and  then  say  "pax,"  then  they  are 
holy  too! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

It  seems  to  me  now  as  if  you  only  came  here  to  dis- 
turb us,  certainly  not  to  right  matters 

LIZZIE. 

Yes,  I  came  here  to  right  matters for  my  father, 

who  was  innocent,  just  as  the  incendiary  was,  you  re- 
member, who  had  fire  set  to  his  place.  I  came  to  right 


MOTHEKLOVE.  37 

you,  who  have  been  the  victim  of  a  woman,  and  who 
can  only  be  righted  by  her  withdrawing  to  a  place 
where  nobody  will  disturb  her  and  where  she  will  dis- 
turb nobody.  That  was  my  mission;  now  I  have  set 
things  right.  Farewell! 

THE  MOTHER. 

Do  not  go,  Miss,  before  I  have  said  one  more  word ! 
You  came  here — leaving  the  other  nonsense  out  of  the 
question — to  invite  Helen  to  visit  you. 

LIZZIE. 

Yes,  so  she  might  meet  the  manager  of  the  big 
theatre,  who  is  interested  in  her. 

THE  MOTHER. 

What !  The  manager !  And  you  said  nothing  about 
that !  Of  course  Helen  can  go — alone !  Yes,  without 
me! 

(Gesture  by  the  Daughter.} 
LIZZIE. 

Now  you  are  human!  Helen  you  may  come!  Do 
you  hear? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Yes,  but  now  I  don't  want  to! 


38  MOTHEKLOVE. 

THE  MOTHEK. 
You're  joking! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

No,  I  would  be  out  of  place;  I  don't  want  to  mingle 
with  people  who  despise  my  mother. 

THE  MOTHEK. 

What  kind  of  talk's  that !  Do  you  want  to  stand  in 
your  own  light  ?  Be  good  enough  to  go  and  get  dressed, 
that  you  may  be  presentable! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

No,  I  cannot,  I  cannot  go  away  from  you,  mother. 
Now  that  I  know  all,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  have  a 
happy  hour  again never  be  able  to  believe  in  any- 
thing  

LIZZIE. 
(To  the  Mother.) 

Now  you  are  reaping  what  you  kave  sown and 

if  some  day  a  man  comes  and  gives  your  daughter  a 
home,  you  will  sit  lonesome  in  your  old  age  and  have 
time  to  rue  your  stupidity.  Good-by!  (Goes  and 
kisses  Helen  on  the  brow.)  Good-by,  sister! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Good-by ! 


MOTHERLOVE.  39 

LIZZIE. 

Look  me  in  the  eyes  and  seem  as  if  you  had  some 
hope  in  life ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

I  can't  do  that !  I  can't  thank  you  for  your  good  in- 
tentions, for  you  have  done  me  more  harm  than  you 
know.  You  waked  me  with  a  snake  as  I  lay  slumbering 
in  the  wood  in  the  sunshine 

LIZZIE. 

Go  to  sleep  again  and  I  shall  wake  you  with  flowers 
and  songs!  Good-night!  Sleep  well!  (Goes.) 

THE  MOTHER. 

An  angel  of  light  in  white  garments!  She  was  a 
devil !  A  real  devil !  And  you !  And  how  foolish  you 
were!  What  a  childish  girl!  To  have  fine  feelings 
when  mankind  is  so  coarse! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Oh,  that  you  could  be  so  untruthful  to  me;  that  I 
could  be  deceived  into  reviling  my  father ! 

THE  MOTHER. 
Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  discussing  last  year's  snows. 


40  MOTHERLOVE. 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
And  beside Aunt  Augusta! 

THE  MOTHER. 

Silence !     Aunt  Augusta  is  a  fine  woman,  to  whom 
you  owe  a  great  debt 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

That  is  not  true  either It  was  my  father  who  paid 

for  my  education 

THE  MOTHER. 

Yes,  but  I  had  to  live,  too —  —You  are  so  childish! 
And  you  are  vindictive,  also !     Can't  you  forget  a  little 

deception (Enter   the    Wardrobe    Mistress.)      See, 

here  comes  Augusta !     Come,  now  we  little  people  will 
amuse  ourselves  as  best  we  can. 

THE  WARDROBE  MISTRESS. 

Yes,  it  was  he !     You  see  I  didn't  advise  you  so 
badly. 

THE  MOTHER. 

We  will  not  bother  ourselves   about  that  miserable 
man 


MOTHERLOVE.  41 

THE  DAUGHTER. 
Don't  talk  that  way,  mother,  it  isn't  true ! 

THE  WARDEOBE  MISTRESS. 
What  isn't  true  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

Come,  let's  play  cards !     I  cannot  break  down  tke 

wall  it  took  so  many  years  to  build ! Come ! 

(She  sits  down  and  begins  to  shuffle  the  deck.) 

THE  MOTHER. 

See,  now  at  last  you  are  a  sensible  girl ! 
(CURTAIN.) 


SWANWHITE 

A  RAIRY  DRAM: A 

BY  AUGUST   STRINDBERG 


Translated  by  FRANCIS  J.  ZIEGLER 


PRINTED  ON  DECKLE  EDGE  PAPER  AND  ATTRACTIVELY  BOUND 
IN  CLOTH 


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A  Poetic  Idyl,  which  is  charming  in  its  sweet  purity,  delightful  in  its 
optimism,  elusive  in  its  complete  symbolism,  but  wholesome  in  its  message 
that  pure  love  can  conquer  evil. 

So  out  of  the  cold  North,  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  world's  most  terrible 
misogynists,  comes  a  strange  message — one  which  is  as  sweet  as  it  is  unex- 
pected. And  August  Strindberg,  the  enemy  of  love,  sings  that  pure  love 
is  all  powerful  and  all-conquering.— SPRINGFIELD,  MASS., 
REPUBLICAN. 


It  is  worth  while  to  have  all  of  the  plays  of  such  a  great  dramatist  in 
our  English  tongue.  Since  the  death  of  Ibsen  he  is  the  chief  of  the 
Scandinavians.  .  .  The  publishers  deserve  thanks  and  support  fo»  their 
enterprise.  There  has  long  existed  a  need  for  just  such  an  edition  of  con- 
temporary foreign  plays.  .  .  ." — THE  SUN,  Baltimore. 


"  An  idyllic  play,  filled  with  romantic  machinery  of  the  Northern  fairy 
tales  and  legends,  ...  It  belongs  to  a  class  by  itself.  .  .  ." — 
PHILADELPHIA  RECORD. 

BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


The  Creditor 

Fordringsagare 

A  Psychological  Study  of  the  Divorce  Question  by  the 
Swedish  Master 

AUGUST   STRINDBERG 

Author  of  "Froken  Julie,"  "Swanwhite," 
"Father,"  "Motherlove,"  etc. 

Translated  from  the  Swedish  by  FRANCIS  J.  ZIEGLER 


Cloth,  $1.00  net.     Postage,  8  Cents 


Amid  that  remarkable  group  of  one-act  plays,  which 
embodies  August  Strindberg's  maturest  work  as  a  play- 
wright, the  tragic  comedy  "Fordringsagare"  (THE 
CREDITOR),  occupies  a  prominent  place. 

"Fordringsagare"  was  produced  for  the  first  time  in 
1889,  when  it  was  given  at  Copenhagen  as  a  substitute 
for  "Froken  Julie,"  the  performance  of  which  was  for- 
bidden by  the  censor.  Four  years  later  Berlin  audiences 
made  its  acquaintance,  since  when  it  has  remained  the 
most  popular  of  Strindberg's  plays  in  Germany. 

BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


A  DILEMMA 

A  STORY  OF  MENTAL  PERPLEXITY 

By  LEONIDAS  ANDREIYEFF 

Translated  from  the  Russian  by  JOHN  COURNOS 


Cloth,  75  Cents  net.     Postage,  7  Cents 


A  remarkable  analysis  of  mental  subtleties  as  experi- 
enced by  a  man  who  is  uncertain  as  to  whether  or  not 
he  is  insane.  A  story  that  is  Poe-like  in  its  intensity  and 
full  of  grim  humor. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  literary  studies  of  crime 
since  Dostoieffsky's  "Crime  and  Punishment." — Chicago 
Evening  Post. 

A  grim  and  powerful  study  by  that  marvelous  Russian, 
Leonidas  Andreiyeff. —  The  Smart  Set. 

Leonidas  Andreiyeff  is  a  writer  who  bites  deep  into 
life.  In  him  Slavic  talent  for  introspection  is  remarkably 
developed.  Poetic,  powerfully  imaginative,  master  of 
stark  simplicity,  he  has  written  stories  stamped  with  the 
seal  of  genius.  Andreiyeff  is  an  O.  Henry,  plus  the 
divine  fire. — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Fine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


S  I  L  K  N  C 

By  LEONIDAS  ANDREIYEFF 


Translated  from  the  Russian  by  JOHN  COURNOS 
SECOND   EDITION 


PRINTED  IN  LARGE,  CLEAR  TYPE  AND  BOUND  IN  GRAY  BOARDS 

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Silence  is  overflowing-  with  the  intensity  and  the  pent- 
up  force  of  human  misery.  The  story  is  not  to  be  readily 
disposed  of  with  a  few  cursory  notes  of  comment. 
Though  brief,  it  is  significant  of  its  author's  remarkable 
powers,  the  powers  that  the  Russians  alone  possess. — 
BOSTON  EVENING  TRANSCRIPT. 


.  .  .  .  It  is  a  wonderful  word-painting  of  a  silent  horror 
indescribably  treated  with  the  pen  of  an  impressionist, 

guided  by  the  soul  of  a  great  artist The  artistry 

of  the  few  pages  is  so  strong  that  the  madness  of  it 
pursues  the  reader  many  hours  after  the  little  book  has 
been  laid  down  and  closed.  —  PUBLIC  l^EDGER, 
Philadelphia. 


"It  is  certainly  poetry  and  literature."— THE  NEW 
YORK  SUN 


BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


IN  PREPARATION: 

A  RED  FLOWER 

By  VSEVOLOD  GARSHIN 

A   powerful   short   story   by   one    of    Russia's  popular 

authors,  unknown  as  yet  to  the 

English-speaking  public 


THE 

GRISLEY  SUITOR 

By  FRANK  WEDEKIND 

Author  of  "THE  AWAKENING  OF  SPRING,"  Etc. 
An  excellent  story  of  the  De-Maupassant  type 


BY   THE    SAME   AUTHOR: 

RABBI    EZRA.    A  SKETCH 
THB  VICTIM.    A  STORY 


BOTH    IN    ONE   VOLUME 


BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


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